


take me to church

by nicrouleaucanrouleauintomybed



Category: Fleabag
Genre: Church Sex, Confessional Sex, F/M, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 09:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicrouleaucanrouleauintomybed/pseuds/nicrouleaucanrouleauintomybed
Summary: "He gazes at her like she’s the second coming, like she’ll be coming in a second, and like she won’t be the second one coming."alternate titles:- bless me, Father, for I have sinned- I believe in miracles, you sexy priest- it's been seven years and I'm still writing porn about andrew scottedit: as of 21st June I have seen andrew scott make out with three people on stage a good couple dozens of times this week thank you and god bless





	take me to church

**Author's Note:**

> My only regret is that I, a lesbian, cannot also have sex with the Priest from Fleabag.

There comes a certain quietness, after she’s cried, like nothing was ever going to happen again. That’d be quite a relief, actually, if that was the case: if nothing did actually happen ever again, after that. If she could be absorbed into the dark wood of the confessional, if she could be taken by the hand and brought up to new heights or flung down into new depths, by him, by Him, whoever it was who wrenched her heart out of her chest and held it aloft to be bathed in moonlight and mercy. Then she hears him in the dark, calm and commanding in equal measure; _kneel,_ his voice curling through the darkness of the confessional; _just kneel_.

She places her glass down, slightly unsteady, and sinks to her knees as she would before an altar.  

If she knew the word hagiographic, she would be using that to describe him, standing above her, curtain drawn back and expression inscrutable with intent. Instead, she thinks, _god, he does look good in the, erm_ , and, when the corner of that wicked mouth twitches with an equally wicked smirk, _I hope this doesn’t awaken anything within me_. He gazes at her like she’s the second coming, like she’ll be coming in a second, and like she won’t be the second one coming, all wrapped up in one, electrifying gaze. There’s a tiny part of her, perhaps a couple of cells in her pinky toe, that is re-considering whether this is a good idea, but then they’re both kneeling in a communion booth in a dark church, hiding from their troubles, and she is desperately lonely and desperately frightened and desperate, just plain desperate, she knows she’ll be lost the second he touches her. And she's lost. Of course she is.

He cradles her face like she is a relic, caresses her skin like she is something to be worshipped, and she is frightened of moving, of speaking, of doing anything at all that may break the spell, have him bolt into the darkness like a wild horse who hasn’t quite come to learn her scent yet and, really, that was a bad simile, because now she’s just thinking of riding him to death. Gently, sweetly, he kisses her, and the yearning that is building up in her chest, somewhere lodged under her ribs, is unlike anything she’s felt in years, because it's just been so horribly long, and his lips are softer and warmer than she had ever dared dream. When they break, he’s still gazing at her steadily, hungrily, and she's afraid he’s going to say something, do something, might even bolt, attraction and anxiety and arousal a maelstrom in her core, before he kisses her.  _Really_ kisses her. The touch of his lips is an electric shock, jolting them both into action, turning whatever objections they’d had into ash. She’s not sure which of them moves first, only that they rise together, almost grappling in the moonlight spilling through stained glass windows. Hips and elbows knock against wood, even the need to breathe no incentive to stop. She breaks apart to scrabble at the black cloth that hides his desire and reminds him why he hides it both, only to kiss away his stupid apologies, until they’re stumbling again, adrift in a sea of desire.

He collapses before her onto the seat on which she had been so recently confessing, staring up at her, reverent and terrified. Already looking thoroughly debauched, all messy hair and reddened lips, and trousers tugged down his thighs, his cock is red and swollen against the black of his robes. A cloudy drop of precum has beaded at the tip, and she drops to her knees because she wants to, and it seems like she can, and she is so, so tired of pretending otherwise.

“Shit, _fuck_ ,” he says, before she’s even got her mouth on him. “We should - we - condom.”

Oh.

That.

“Clean, surprisingly,” _god this better not kill the mood_ , “You?”

He blinks a few times. “I - I mean, it’s been a while, but, yes - maybe we should - ”

“Brilliant,” she says, and dives back down, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock and sucking down as much as she can without actually unhinging her jaw.

She suppresses a grin at the hard thud of his head falling back against the wall of the booth, his whole body unguarded and pliant, sinking further and further down on his cock until he’s whining, until he’s begging, until all he can do is tangle a hand in her hair and pray for forgiveness. And, pray, he does, a litany of quiet words and curses falling from his lips as she commits the shape of him to drunken memory.

She has a man of the cloth pressed up against his confessional booth, his trousers halfway down his thighs and his cock warm and heavy on her tongue, and he is _begging_ for her. It’s more than enough to have her removing one hand from his hip and shoving it down the front of her jeans, the good old sign of the horns. She moans around his cock, rocking into her hand, until her fingers are slick, moving of their own accord. Only on the first signs of him beginning to unravel entirely does she lift off with an obscene pop, keeping one hand on his cock, the other teasing her clit, cunt wet with desire.

“Jesus, fuck,” he says, chest heaving underneath his robes, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries in vain to steady himself.

“Did you know,” she says as conversationally, keeping her rhythm as slow and steady as she can, “it’s really fucking hot when you curse.”

He groans, a deep, full-body sound that reverberates around the inside of the confessional. "You’re such a fucking _tease_.”

He’s clinging to the bench like he’s clinging for an anchor to purity, his arousal rolling through him in waves: the itching of his fingers, the hammering of his heart, the shallow pools of his breath, any semblance of holiness crumbling to dust before her very eyes. It’s a bit of a fuss, unbuttoning her jeans and shoving them down her waist with one hand, (thank fuck she wore nice knickers today, even if they get shoved aside as well), but she manages it somehow. 

“I thought you were the one who said we weren’t gonna have sex.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve made my bed - ”

She stands to straddle him, sliding her cunt, slick and pulsing, against his cock, and he breaks off with another moan.

“You may as well fuck in it?”

“That’s not gonna happen, if you keep doing that,” he says, voice deliciously strained, and she rocks against him a couple more times, because it feels too good, because he looks too fucking beautiful like this, all slack mouth and fluttering eyelashes and deep, ragged breaths.  “I really think I’d rather have this last longer than you’re threatening to make it right now, _Jesus,_  Mary, and Joseph - ”

He’s pushing her away now, and her heart drops to her stomach, to where all the blood is pooled in her body, until she is suddenly, pathetically grateful to her past self that she shaved everything, _just in case,_ because he's burying his face between her legs and drinking her like she has the goddamn G&T of cunts. If the man upstairs doesn’t strike them down there and then for this, maybe there is nothing to fear when closes her eyes for the last time. There’s some difficult maneuvering, more elbows knocking against wood as she makes sure that beautiful tongue is not going  _anywhere_ , before she's sat on the bench again, the priest kneeling before her and sucking on her clit as if it’s all seven sacraments. That tongue, accustomed to scripture and invocation for so long, tastes her as if as if her body is the key to his salvation. Those fingers that diligently leaf through bibles and place the body of Christ on the tongues of devoted parishioners fuck her as if content to never do those things again. Something rumbles low in his chest when she tangles a hand in his hair, and he hums against her clit, the vibration coursing through her body. Another fluttering moan, louder now, shatters the silence and sanctity of the church and any claims she may have not doing this kind of thing anymore, and her orgasm shudders through her, release and relief and regret washing over her in waves.

His tongue continues its rhythm until her shudders subside; only then does he lift his head and sit back on his ankles. If he looked debauched before, it’s nothing compared to now, lips red and well-fucked, wiping her come off his chin and grinning up at her as she catches her breath.

“Oh, fuck, I've missed doing that,” he says, and even his voice, hoarse with need and desire and worship, is enough to send another shudder through her body. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined doing that?”

“Jesus,” she breathes, heat coursing through her at the thought of him touching himself at the thought of her, sensitive cunt clenching almost painfully. “Whatever else you’ve missed doing, be my guest. Literally, _whatever_ else.”

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he says as the implications hit him, shaking his head like he can banish the images she knows have already sprung up in his mind. “No, but, seriously, though, do you _know_ many times I’ve imagined doing that?”

“Had me in your prayers, then, Father?”

He chuckles. “You could say that.”

“It’s a turn on for you as well, isn’t it?” she asks, after a beat.

“More than you could fucking imagine.”

What he misses doing, apparently, involves having her braced against the back of the confessional, hands splayed against the dark wood and arse in the air. He’s pressed against her back, kissing her neck, neither bothering to remove any more clothes than absolutely necessary. His fingers skim the top of her cunt, delicate like he's handling holy paper, before they sink further, pressing down on her still-sensitive clit. She moans, torn between grinding into his fingers and back against his cock, insistent against her hip.

“For fuck's sake, will you just fuck me already?”

“Look, if I wasn’t on the verge of coming in my pants like a teenager,” he replies, far more sarcastic than he has any right to be in this moment. “I could get you off like this for  _hours._ ”

“ _Father_ \- ”

The hands disappear from her hips without another word, leaving her cold, alone, trembling from the final drag of his fingers against her clit. Then his fingers dig into her hips, and she feels his cock pressing into her, and everything narrows until the only thing she’s aware of is his slow, steady slide into her (and probably also to Hell, who the fuck knows at this point). She presses back immediately, biting down on her arm to stifle a desperate noise as her skin stretches around him, and he swears, again and again and a-fucking again as she swallows him, inch by inch.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, and it feels fucking great to know he's just affected as she is, just as dazedly aroused.

She clenches her cunt, just as an experiment, and smiles lazily when it forces another shudder and groan out of him before he begins pulling back and rutting forward, wasting no time in fucking her senseless. The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin and their ragged breathing are the only noises in the otherwise silent church. He’s steady at first but, when she starts chanting, _harder, Father, please_ , under her breath, he laughs, breathlessly, and finally puts those beautiful arms to what really should be their God-intended use.

God, he sets a punishing rhythm, slamming into her with crushing abandon. Her hands scrabble for something, anything to hold on to for dear life, her breasts bouncing almost painfully and the confessional booth shaking in time to him fucking into her. But every bit of pain or discomfort - her breasts, the strain of her arms, his fingers digging into her skin - is just that much more pleasure, as much as the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of her slick, sensitive core. She’s lost all control over her voice, a litany of _Father, Father, Father_ as he fucks her, rougher than she’s been fucked in years. Her body, already pliant, is practically singing for the man, her own pleasure building again: enough for her to need a release but not quite enough to cause it.

She’s more than happy to have her whole body smushed up against the back wall of the confessional to bring one hand back down to her clit if he continues fucking into her like that.

The movement of her fingers sliding against her swollen clit has another orgasm shuddering through her in minutes, and he won’t be able to deny, with God as his witness, how watching her crumble by his hand sent him hurtling towards his own completion. He slams into her once, twice, then shudders, her cunt spasming and sending aftershocks throughout her entire body as he spills warm and deep inside her.

The church is suddenly, deathly quiet, but for the sound of their laboured breathing.

He pulls out with a soft, sated, sorrowful moan, and she whines at the sudden emptiness, collapsing against the wall of the confessional. She knows she probably has bruised hips and a ruined friendship and quite a bit of come dripping down her thighs - she’s not even entirely sure she remembers her own name - but she’s far too fucked out and fucked up to care. Without speaking, they dress, and neither he nor He pin her with judgement, but his shoulders hang heavy with guilt, his robes stained with the evidence of his sacrilege.

“In my defence,” she says, after a long moment of silence. “You did tell me I could come whenever I want.”

He says nothing.

“And that you’d like me to come.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he says, and she grins, and he grins, and she knows that this sin can be forgiven, even if it does not deserve to be.


End file.
